by Peter Nealen
His smile faltered when the first salvo of rockets went over, heading south.
I knew the sound of 107s. And coming in that kind of a swarm, they had to be from an actual Chinese Type 63, somewhat similar to a WWII German Nebelwerfer. It seemed like the rebels were ratcheting things up a notch.
A second and third salvo buzzed overhead, coming from different parts of the city, even as we heard the rolling thunder of the rockets hitting downrange. I could guess where they were aimed, and from the wide-eyed look on the captain’s face, I suspect he could, too.
I was in the passenger seat of the Defender, with the window rolled down, and could just hear the captain’s radio go nuts. It was in English, but I couldn’t make out what was being said. I didn’t need to.
“Everyone inside!” he shouted, waving at his men, and us. “Everyone get to cover!” Even as he said that, there was a fusillade of automatic weapons fire from the north. It sounded close, and several of the shots snapped by overhead.
None of us needed a lot of urging. Even as the Humvee gunners swiveled their DShKs to the north, we were bailing out of the trucks and looking for some kind of overhead cover. Unfortunately, the building didn’t really qualify as such; sheet metal doesn’t stop rockets all that well.
But most of us had been under indirect fire before. While the Ethiopians cringed, and a lot of them dove for the dirt, we headed for the north wall. Not much overhead cover, no, but if the rockets were at a low enough angle, the wall would cover us decently. I noticed that I wasn’t the only one with rifle in hand; everybody was armed, which the Ethiopians hadn’t been comfortable with, but when the metal starts meeting the meat, fuck their comfort level.
There was a pause, likely as they reloaded their tubes, and Larry, Jim, Alek, and I started pushing toward the gate, and the sound of weapons fire. We didn’t say anything about it, didn’t even look at each other. We just went.
However, the Ethiopian captain saw us and yelled. “No, my friends, I cannot let you go out there!”
“Fuck off,” Alek growled. “You think we’re just going to cower here, while the rebels overrun us?”
The captain was on his feet now, from where he had thrown himself in the dust, and was brushing off his uniform, as he kicked one of his soldiers up out of the dirt. “I am sorry, but I have very specific orders. This is not your mission any more. I cannot let you loose in the city, interfering.”
He had no sooner finished speaking than there was a bang from the north, near the old railroad tracks, almost drowned out by the whoosh of a PG-7V warhead. Half a second later, the PG slammed into the side of one of the Humvees at the gate. The concussion thumped through the gate, hammering our lungs and ears, as smoke and grit blasted into the air. When the smoke cleared, the DShK was down, the gunner slumped in a bloody ruin in the turret. One of the Ethiopian soldiers was crawling out of the back door, furthest from the blast.
The shockwave had knocked the captain off his feet. I reached down, grabbed him by the shirt front, and hauled him up, sticking my face close to his. “That is what we’re trying to ‘interfere’ with, motherfucker!” I snarled at him. “Those are your troops dead in that truck, not ours. Now you can worry about your orders, or political fallout, or whatever has your fucking panties in a twist, while more of your people get killed, or you can let us out to kill some of these assholes, and hopefully save some of your men’s lives.” I let him go, and he fell back down on his ass, looking up at me with that slightly bewildered look of somebody who had just gotten caught in an explosion, then had somebody yell at him while still trying to regain his equilibrium. “Your call.”
He didn’t have much to say, especially as AK fire started coming through the gate and smacking holes in the side of the building behind us. I left him sitting in the dust and pushed out with the others.
As we cleared the destroyed Humvee, which was starting to burn, I saw that the situation was a lot worse than I’d expected. There were at least a hundred people in the streets, and most all of them were armed. I saw AKs, FALs, and even a few G3s. There were more climbing up on the rooftops, with rifles, PKM and RPK machine guns, and RPG-7s. The ones in the front of the crowd were firing sporadically, and inaccurately, mostly from the hip or with the rifle held out at arm’s length in front of them.
One ran forward, stopping in a half crouch, stuck out his rifle, and sprayed about a ten-round burst at us. I dropped to a knee, as the rest scrambled for cover, leveled my rifle, and dropped him with a pair to the chest. He collapsed in the street, his AK flying from his hands. Then all hell broke loose.
The Ethiopians were mostly huddled in the shelter of the other Humvee, or the two BTRs, and for some reason the heavy guns on the BTRs were silent. One went silent permanently as two PG rounds hit the turret. The explosions tore into the vehicle, and the remains of the turret were half knocked off the mounting ring. The volume of fire was increasing, especially as the Ethiopians kept to cover, only popping out to fire two or three rounds at a time. We spread out, got down, and started dropping gomers.
I had found my position was a little too exposed, so I moved to the corner of the non-burning Humvee, got down on one knee, and opened fire again. I shot a yelling gomer with a FAL, and, incongruously, water-wings on. The round went low, and he spun to the street, clutching his shredded guts, screaming.
“Up!” Alek yelled, over the increasing roar of small-arms fire. “Take the machine gunners and the RPGs!”
I tracked up to the roof, where an RPG gunner had just popped up, aiming at the truck I was kneeling behind. The PG-7 round looked fucking huge, even from this distance. My shot took him in high center chest, and he staggered, a dark red stain spreading across his torso, before slumping and falling off the roof. His slack body dropped onto the head of another fighter, who was half-crouched behind the corner of the building, holding his AK out and sideways as he fired at us. I don‘t know exactly what happened on impact, but neither man moved again.
It was one of the most intense firefights I’d ever been in. Half the time I was only barely lining up the target before firing. Gunfire rolled along our small line in a constant roar, as we gunned down rebel fighters as fast as we could squeeze the trigger, recover from the recoil, and move on to the next target. Meanwhile, the volume of return fire just kept growing. I shot another fighter, in a white shirt, shorts, and sandals, as he ran forward. His legs went out from under him as red blossomed on his shirt, and he tumbled head over heels to the street.
Then I ducked back down behind the Humvee, as a stream of RPK fire started pinging into the metal and the street right in front of me.
“Alek!” I yelled. “I’m starting to think this might not have been the best idea!”
He was hunkered down behind a stack of cinderblocks outside the long warehouse to the east. “I’m starting to agree!” he shouted back. “Fall back by twos! We’re going to go firm. Jeff! See if that captain can make himself useful, and get us some supporting fires, air if he can get it! The rest of us will get the Ethiopians inside the compound!”
I nodded curtly, and dashed back through the gate, to where the captain was starting to shake off the shock and concussion and was getting his men organized on the walls.
I grabbed him by the arm, and yelled in his ear, over the noise of Jon and Chad opening fire from the gateway with our two M60E4s. “We need supporting fires, helos if you can get them!”
He shook his head. “There are no helicopters! The only ones that might have been available were hit by rockets while they were on the ground.”
“Fuck!” I bellowed. “Get your people inside, and get that other BTR shooting. We’re going to be overrun if we don’t get some heavier fire on those assholes out there.”
“Yes, yes,” he shouted, and started out onto the street, where he started signaling and yelling to his troops. The still-operational BTR started moving, as the Ethiopians ran toward the gate, covered by Alek, Jim, and Larry, bolstered by Jon and Chad alternating long
bursts over the top of the wall. I saw a group of at least five bad guys go down in a heap as Chad played his fire across the street. The machine guns were doing an increasingly effective job of sweeping the street clear, but that just meant they’d find another avenue of approach to come at us.
As the last of the Ethiopians scrambled through the gate, and the captain started directing them to other defensive positions around the compound, Alek punched Larry in the shoulder. Larry and Jim immediately came to their feet and dashed back inside, passing where I was leaning out into the gateway, opposite Alek. I took up firing, and yelled at him, “Alek! Turn and go!”
He was up and moving, his legs pumping, as 7.62 rounds kicked up dust around his feet. A rock rolled under his foot and he stumbled, going down to a knee. I started to dash out to help him, but he scrambled back to his feet and barely beat the hostile fire inside, as the BTR rolled in front of the gate, closing it off. The turret turned, and the 14.5mm KPVT in the turret opened up with a series of painfully loud, chunking bangs.
The BTR’s gunner let off after about fifty rounds. The sudden drop-off of shooting seemed eerily quiet, even though we could still hear the rockets going over, and what sounded like fierce fighting elsewhere in the city. The group attacking here had apparently decided to back off for the moment. We had a breather, for a little while.
Mike’s team was back on its security positions at 100 percent, now bolstered with Ethiopian soldiers. The initial shock of the attack seemed to be wearing off, and their officers and NCOs were getting a handle on things. The rest of us met with the captain in the corner of the U-shaped building. He was talking with his higher headquarters on what looked like a Russian manpack radio.
He finished, shoving the single headphone back into the canvas carrier. “The rebels waited until we were well into the town, then attacked out of the slums,” he explained. “It was well-coordinated, and they are far better armed and organized than we’d expected.”
“Does this sound like a homegrown Djiboutian rebellion to you?” Caleb asked.
The captain shook his head. “No, it does not. These people are horribly poor and uneducated. They couldn’t have afforded all the arms and munitions without outside help, not to mention the tactics and strategy are too complex.” He looked around at us. “I suspect the Eritreans are behind this.”
“Maybe,” Danny replied. He hadn’t made his status known to the Ethiopians, and none of us were going to let them know, either. As far as the captain knew, he was just another team member. “Maybe not.” He wasn’t any more forthcoming. I suspected he recognized what was going on, but wasn’t interested in necessarily enlightening the captain about it. Couldn’t say I blamed him.
“Can we get some support?” Alek put in, changing the subject. “We do need to get these hostages out of here, and we can’t do that while they’re shooting us to ribbons. I’d prefer helos, but if you can get a couple more armored vehicles here, that might help.”
The captain shook his head. “They did a great deal of damage with the rocket attacks. Our main Forward Operating Bases are in disarray, much damage, many fires. We have small units cut off and isolated throughout the city. Higher is trying to put together a rescue column, with tanks and BMPs, but they will probably not be ready to move until tonight, or tomorrow morning.” He shrugged apologetically. “And this will likely be the last place they come to. They will be starting on the other side of the city.”
Alek blew a sigh. “Fuck. All right, then, let’s get a rotation set for security, and get all the ammo broken back out. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.” He looked over at Caleb and Danny. “We’ve got a couple of calls to make, ourselves.”
Alek, Larry, Jim, and I watched as Danny paced along the wall, his satellite phone held to his ear. He was not happy.
He spoke quietly and calmly, though, even while his jaw clenched angrily. We couldn’t tell what was being said, but he was talking to Langley and looked pissed, so that couldn’t be a good sign.
After a few more minutes of low, heated conversation, he took the phone away from his ear and killed the connection, then walked over to us.
“Washington wants to go after the two groups of hostages that we know about,” he began. “They are convinced that the longer they wait, the greater the risk of losing them.”
“They might not be all that wrong,” Larry pointed out. “Especially after Balbala.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Danny replied. “Point is, if we’re going to go after Abu Sadiq, we’re going to have to move fast.”
I glanced back at the Ethiopians. “That may be easier said than done,” I muttered.
“I wouldn’t worry about them,” Danny said. “They want us out of the way, the sooner the better. I’m actually more worried that Langley is now going to decide to stick their oar in, and fuck everything up a month into the op.”
“Why now?” Jim asked, his face impassive. I think he suspected the answer, but wanted Danny’s take.
Danny laughed humorlessly. “Because it just dawned on them how far out in the wind we are, with no ass. My report on the Balbala raid sent up some red flags, so now they’re scrambling to try to catch up, while simultaneously trying to make it look to the seventh floor that they didn’t completely screw the pooch from the get-go. We can expect some more support, but it might not be what we want or need.”
“Who is the lead on this op, Danny?” Alek asked quietly. “You or me? Or some Fobbit paper-pusher at Langley?”
“Technically, I am,” Danny replied. “Operationally, you are. I’m here to support, and to try to keep Langley from fucking too much up.”
“And does Langley accept that?”
Danny grimaced. “With very poor grace, but yes. For the moment.”
“Then they’ll stay out of the way if I say so?”
Danny paused, as if reluctant to answer. “Well?” Alek asked, watching him closely.
Danny took a deep breath. “They’ll stay clear if I tell them. I am reasonably certain of that.” He rubbed his beard. “They do want us to make contact with a guy down south, in Kenyan-occupied territory. They’re insisting he can be a valuable asset.”
“You don’t sound convinced,” I pointed out.
He shook his head. “I know the guy from a few years back. He’s…well, I don’t think he’s screwed together all that tightly, if you know what I mean. I think he’s a loon, but he’s got people at Langley who think he’s one of the best Africa hands they’ve got. Not sure if that’s saying something about their judgment, or the state of the Africa desk, but there you go.”
Jim and I cussed, but Alek just smiled tightly as he glanced down at the ground. “And how far from Kismayo is this guy?”
“He’s in Baardheere. About two hundred miles north.”
“So technically, he’s on the way there?”
“Technically, yes.” Danny didn’t look too happy at the admission.
“Fine,” Alek said, his hands on his hips. “We’ll try to make contact with him. But our priority is this Abu Sadiq, and finding the rest of the hostages.”
“Actually,” I pointed out, as some more sporadic gunfire went by overhead, “I’d say right now our priority is getting out of this compound, with all our gear, in one piece. I doubt the gomers are going to let us waltz out of here.” I looked at Danny. “Do you think we can get that ACV to come in closer? Like at the shoreline about a hundred yards from here?”
“It’s possible, provided I can get the pilot to come that close to the shooting,” Danny replied wryly. “These guys aren’t planning on being combatants; they aren’t like Van Husten.”
“Well, what are they getting paid for? Support, right?” Larry demanded.
“They’re getting paid to transport Company cargo quietly and discreetly,” Danny said. “That doesn’t necessarily include coming in to a hot landing site, in their book.”
The snap of bullets passing by overhead started to increase. “Well, call them up and t
ell them,” Alek said. “I think we have the second wave to deal with.” Danny nodded, and we headed for the west side of the compound, where most of the shooting seemed to be coming from.
I ducked into our clinic/team room building, and moved to a window that was high enough to see over the outer wall. The wall itself was only a couple of feet from the building on the west side, so it would be pretty easy to shoot over. I kept back from the window to keep from silhouetting myself, and peeked out.
There wasn’t much to see; the gomers were generally staying out of sight, popping out to fire a few shots wildly in our direction, then ducking back down below the low wall around the school across the street. I couldn’t see how many of them there were, but it wasn’t enough, or they weren’t coordinated enough, to put out much in the way of overwhelming fire.
As I peered out, movement on the other side of the window caught the corner of my eye, and I glanced over to see Imad doing the same, his Mk 17 cradled easily in his hands. He squinted against the glare from outside, and asked, “Do you see what I see? Right, just on the near corner of the soccer field?”
I looked, and my blood ran cold, as I saw what he was talking about immediately. “That looks like a mortar team setting up to me,” I said. “That what it looks like to you?”
“Yep,” he replied, bringing his rifle to his shoulder. I followed suit, and settled my crosshairs on the gomer holding the tube. Imad’s rifle boomed a fraction of a second before mine did. My target dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, red splashing from his chest. I didn’t see which one Imad had shot at, but I didn’t worry about it. The guy had been a competitor at the International Sniper Competition at Fort Benning a year before he joined us. You didn’t worry about Imad hitting what he aimed at.
I caught another gomer running for the dropped tube, bent over to try to get below our fire, and shot him. The shot was a little wide, and took him in the neck instead of the torso. He fell, anyway, and I went to looking for more targets.